Harlequin KISS November 2014 Box Set: Behind Closed Doors...Fired by Her FlingWho's Calling the Shots?Nine Month Countdown

by Anne Oliver

  She grabbed a light blanket from a chest of drawers and draped it over his inert body. Obviously he wasn’t going to surface any time soon.

  ‘Oh, Jack,’ she whispered, sinking into the armchair beside the bed. ‘We had so many good times when we were kids. You were my best friend. You didn’t even get mad when I soldered your meccano set to make a windmill.’

  She smiled at the memory, but the smile faded as quickly as it came. ‘Why did everything change?’

  It had been in this room, she thought, staring at the window. The evening started off okay. The Plan had been to give Jack her virginity and he’d see they were meant for each other. Only the Plan had gone horribly wrong.

  Not only had Jack backed away from her when the CD had started a slow dance number, he’d started drinking. A lot. Hurt, she’d flirted with Sam and somehow they’d ended up in the back seat of his car with a bottle of vodka.

  Until Jack’s fist had appeared through the car window.

  The memory struck hard. Unable to sit, Cleo stood and paced the carpet. That night she’d been standing here hugging her arms the same way, but for an entirely different reason. Her new blouse with its tiny front-closing loop buttons had been hanging open, her bra missing.

  The party lights outside cast Jack’s rock-hard face in an orange glow. Over the ringing in her ears she could hear raucous laughter and loud music.

  Jack’s fingers dug into the flesh of her upper arms, dark eyes flashing with something so much more dangerous than temper. ‘What the hell have you done?’

  ‘What do you care?’ Cleo tried to dash the wetness from her eyes but Jack kept her arms pinned to her sides, easily holding her in place.

  ‘You’re sixteen, Cleo. Do you know what that means?’

  Right now all she knew was she wanted to scream, to pummel him, to throw herself at that broad chest and beg him to make love to her. But that wasn’t going to happen. She knew that now. ‘I hate you, Jack Devlin. I’m going to find someone who’ll show me a good time.’ Her lips stretched into a sneer. ‘A very good time.’

  His fingers tightened, and the look on his face made her shudder with something close to fear. ‘You want a good time?’ he said between clenched teeth, the words barely audible over the blood pulsing through her cotton-wool head.

  His mouth crushed down on hers, hot, hard and unforgiving. She couldn’t pull away because his hand had hold of her scalp. Barely able to stand, she stood frozen as his lips mashed against hers, his teeth cutting into the soft flesh inside her lower lip. His tongue plunged through her lips, open with shock.

  Then he jerked away, breath ragged and rasping, eyes tormented, his beautiful lips glistening in the dim light. Then he swiped a hand across his mouth as if her taste were poison and strode towards the door. ‘You’ve got two minutes to make yourself presentable and be out of my sight or I won’t be responsible for my actions.’

  ‘You’re too late, Big Brother,’ she shouted at his retreating back.

  ‘I’ll kill him,’ she heard him say as he slammed the door behind him.

  Closing her eyes briefly, Cleo drew the curtain on those memories. She blew a long breath and rubbed her cheeks. Then turned to look at Jack. Still sleeping, thank God.

  Jack had made it clear how he’d felt about her six years ago. He’d kissed her and it had disgusted him. He’d been so disgusted he’d threatened her with dire consequences. She hadn’t seen or heard from him since.

  Leaving the night lamp on, she slipped towards the door. The image of Jack on her patchwork quilt had burned into her brain and warmed up a few erogenous zones besides.

  In spite of everything, she still wanted him. ‘Sweet dreams, Jack,’ she whispered into the semi-darkness. On second thought make that not-so-sweet dreams.

  * * *

  Jack knew he was dreaming but that didn’t make it less real. His head twisted from side to side, his breathing picked up pace. The sky was bone-white, the land baked and brown. And cold. He shivered as the wind whistled through his sweat-damp shirt, and hefted another boulder from what had once been a simple home.

  He could hear a woman wailing, but the ragged children were silent ghosts watching him out of dark, hollowed eyes in dirt-stained faces. Their village was a pile of rubble. The dead stank.

  Then out of nowhere, gunfire and screams. The white-hot sting of metal piercing flesh, the thud as his body hit hard-packed dirt. He writhed on the ground, biting dust while his blood trickled hot over his skin. Get down! Get down!

  Darkness engulfed him. And somewhere in that dark place filled with pain a familiar voice spoke his name. That hadn’t happened in the dream before. He tried to open his eyes to see her but they were glued shut.

  Cool hands touched his face, stroked his arms. He smelled jasmine as she stretched out alongside him.

  Then stillness, and a tranquillity that went soul deep...

  * * *

  He must have died and gone to heaven. A hazy memory of an angel teased the edges of his mind. A less-than-holy angel with a siren’s voice and one hell of a bedside manner. And he could still smell the jasmine... He frowned. Angels wore perfume?

  He opened his eyes and found her. A tousled and sleeping angel named Cleo curled up on the armchair beside him. He noticed an indent on the adjacent pillow confirming that at some stage Cleo had lain beside him.

  Like a gunshot, something inside him pinged as images of her flooded back. The Cleo he remembered was always moving, a blur of colour and energy. So it was a rare and beautiful sight to see her still and innocent in sleep with the subtle bloom of sunrise on her cheeks, the disorderly halo of golden hair around her face.

  But her mouth, relaxed and full—he thought of a plump red cherry. Why did the word ripe seem so apt? Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that he’d spent so many years remembering the absolute innocence of her taste and wondering if it had matured.

  She sighed as if responding to his thoughts, but her eyes remained shut. She’d covered herself from neck to toes in a cotton sheet. Just as well because he knew the body beneath was way too distracting for a man barely out of hospital, let alone a man who didn’t fit in with her life.

  Unfortunately his imagination wasn’t impaired. Neither was his testosterone. His blood grew thick and sluggish, pooling in his groin. With a harsh sigh he shoved the cover down to his waist, closed his eyes and concentrated on the cool air moving over his chest and face.

  Come on, Jack. Think of her as just another photo shoot. Except she’d never be model material. Not enough self-discipline, too small in stature, too many curves. The thought of those delicate curves had his mind wandering in a direction he didn’t want to go.

  Instead, he set his mind to imagining her covered in silk; peach, the colour of her skin. Or reclining in a wheelbarrow, covered in leaves—only leaves, the colour of autumn to match the gold glints in her hair.

  But he couldn’t get past the image of a crisp autumn wind playing havoc, undoing his artistic handiwork, her rosy nipples pebbly with the chill...

  Jack swore silently. He needed a distraction. A run was out; the alternative was a cold shower. He ordered his sluggish body to move, but his legs refused to obey. An instant of pure panic sliced through him.

  His eyes shot to the foot of the bed. The small mountain of white fur on his calves seemed to augment as the animal, he assumed it was, uncurled itself. A pair of eyes—one gold, one green—opened, blinked once in disdain, then slid shut. ‘What is that?’ he muttered, exhaling on a breath of relief.

  ‘Who,’ Cleo corrected.

  He glanced her way. Coupled with the amusement sparkling in her eyes, her sleep-husky voice conspired to crumble his already-damaged resolve. He looked back at the bottom of the bed and scowled. ‘Who, then?’

  ‘His name’s Constantine and he’s a very spoilt, v
ery arrogant Persian-cross, but he thinks he’s human.’

  ‘What the dickens do you feed him? He’s massive.’

  ‘Seven kilos at the last weigh-in. Come on, Con.’ An ominous rumble vibrated against Jack’s feet as Cleo shoved her sheet off and rose. ‘Uh-oh, temper alert. Watch.’

  But all Jack could focus on was the tantalising way Cleo’s breasts swayed beneath her tiny vest-top with its star-and-moon print as she leaned over him and reached for the cat.

  There was an indignant growl and a flurry of loose cat fur as she heaved the white mass onto the floor. Shaking back her hair, Cleo watched him stalk off, tail bristling like a feather duster. ‘Trouble is he usually sleeps with me.’

  Lucky Con. ‘Must get a little crowded.’

  Her skin flushed from peach to rose. Grabbing the sheet, she pulled it tight around her like some sort of cotton armour and something more than anger fired those eyes to a hot blue flame. ‘You know nothing about me or my life. You never bothered to keep in contact. That makes my social life none of your business.’

  Did she think he was suggesting crowded as in bed? ‘I only meant...’ He didn’t want to know her sleeping habits, wanted to think about it even less. ‘Forget it.’

  She’d been manipulating boys since reaching puberty at thirteen. It had been a recurring headache, keeping one eye on the rebellious teen and one on her male admirers, and never the twain shall meet. At age twenty-two presumably she had it down pat now.

  He rolled to his side, stuck his uninjured hand behind his head and asked, ‘Have you been here all night?’

  ‘You were obviously having a nightmare. I was just going to bed and I wanted to check you were all right...’ She lifted her chin. ‘I fell asleep. If you think it was for any other reason, you’re sicker than I thought.’

  But she’d thought about it enough to have gotten herself a sheet. In some ways she hadn’t changed. The same caring nature inside the same prickly shell. A smile touched his lips. ‘A few days’ rest and I’ll be fine, but thank you.’

  That chin jutted up a notch. ‘No big deal; I’m used to sleeping upright. I often slept at Gerry’s bedside.’

  Her matter-of-fact retort came armed with a barb aimed squarely at him. And she’d be right on target. She’d borne a responsibility that had belonged to Jack Devlin.

  He wanted to think that if he’d known about his father’s illness earlier he’d have come home, that he’d have made some sort of peace with him, but the scars in their relationship ran bone-deep. If he had come, it would have been for Cleo’s sake, not Dad’s.

  ‘He used to like me to read to him till he fell asleep,’ she said softly. ‘In the early hours when the pain got bad...’ Eyes brimming, she sniffed and grabbed a tissue from the nightstand, but her glare warned him she’d more likely take a chunk out of him than not if he offered any kind of comfort.

  So he stayed as he was and asked, ‘How long was Dad ill?’

  ‘That a son would have to ask that question.’ She shook her head. ‘He knew it was terminal two years ago. It didn’t get too bad until the last three months—they were hard on both of us, but he wanted to die at home.’ Her moisture-laden eyes pinned him to the mattress. ‘He wanted you here when he died.’

  Jack felt the sting of her words as surely as if she’d run him through with one of those metal-smithing tools he’d seen her wield. But the belligerent man Cleo had never seen because Dad had ensured his temper had remained behind closed doors hadn’t been the type to apologise. Which left him wondering what they’d have had to say to each other.

  ‘I’m sorry, Goldilocks.’

  Cleo stared at him and in the silence he swore the temperature plummeted. She blew her nose sharply, then walked to the adjoining bathroom to dispose of the tissue, trailing the sheet behind her. ‘It wasn’t me asking for you,’ she said when she reappeared.

  If Cleo had contacted him, he’d have made the effort. He’d have moved heaven and earth. For her. But Jack himself had made that connection impossible. ‘I didn’t know he was dying.’

  ‘And whose fault’s that?’

  His. Scotty, the only person he’d kept contact with, hadn’t let him know. Jack didn’t hold him responsible; the blame lay with Jack for not asking. ‘Why didn’t you hire a nurse sooner?’

  ‘A nurse?’ Her eyes flashed again as she hugged the sheet tighter. ‘A nurse isn’t a substitute for family. Family, Jack. But you wouldn’t know about that, would you?

  ‘One day, Jack Devlin, you’re going to be sorry you turned your back on the people closest to you, the people who care about you, even when they didn’t know where the hell you were because you never bothered to write or call or let us know.’

  There wasn’t much of her, but the raw edge to her anger packed a punch that reverberated all the way to his toes. He’d known she was strong—stubborn was the word he’d used. But now, with her maturity, he could see so much more. Loyalty, for starters.

  He deserved every word she hurled at him. Not on Dad’s account—Jack would never regret his decision to leave. For not being here for Cleo, for not making contact with her, for causing her pain.

  But she’d never seen the whole picture. She’d been looking through the lens while the action had taken place behind the camera.

  He wanted to keep it that way. ‘Sometimes things aren’t as black and white as you think.’

  ‘You’re no better than the parents who walked out on us. In fact, you’re worse because you know first-hand how it feels to be abandoned.’

  His temple was beginning to throb again and he had no idea when he’d last eaten. ‘Cleo, I don’t want to fight about this now. If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to take that overdue shower.’

  ‘And I need coffee.’ She paused at the door. ‘Do you require any help with that dressing on your shoulder? And that bruise...’ Her eyes slid over his body and away. ‘Did you see a doctor?’

  ‘I can manage, and yes.’

  ‘Was she worth it?’ Her gaze snapped back to his, as frosty as her voice.

  She? ‘What makes you think I was with a woman?’

  Cleo laughed, a brittle sound that skittered along his bones like chipped ice. ‘Try: your reputation. I assume you took it with you when you left?’

  ‘Wouldn’t leave home without it.’ And it suited him fine to let her think so.

  But the deceptive laziness he projected was a stark contrast to the tension stiffening his shoulders and neck as he watched her. Not to mention other body parts stiffening in response to the sight of a tanned bare thigh peeking out from behind her sheet shield. Her wide legged jersey shorts didn’t quite cover the curve of one very cute, well-rounded buttock.

  ‘Just because I left home doesn’t mean I didn’t think about you.’ He immediately cursed himself. Why had he said that?

  ‘Yeah, right.’ She glared at him, her mouth compressed to a grim line, at odds with the soft play of sunlight over her face. She crossed the room again, coffee obviously forgotten. ‘I stopped thinking about you a long time ago.’

  But just for a second her eyes had that same little-girl-lost look he’d seen when her father had announced he’d fallen in love with Jack’s mother, both archaeologists, and they were leaving on a dig in two days. Cleo had been seven years old.

  His parents had rented out the flat adjacent to the house to his mum’s colleague from uni. They’d become more than colleagues.

  From that day on Cleo hadn’t spoken a word about her biological father. It was as if she’d buried him. Jack understood her pain. After all, it had been his own mother the bastard had run off with.

  Had she buried Jack Devlin in the same dark hole? Not that he blamed her, particularly after the fiasco of that last night... Moving carefully, he sat up, swung his legs over the bed and planted his feet on the carpet. ‘Cleo—�
�

  ‘Don’t.’ She held up a hand. ‘Don’t say a word.’ Her sheet drifted further apart, giving him a close-up of taut, smooth skin between the hem of her mini top and those sinfully short shorts. Not to mention the shadowed top of one inner thigh. He took a fortifying breath and reluctantly shifted his eyes to hers.

  ‘You’re history, Jack. You may think you’re God’s gift to women, but not to this woman. This woman wants more than a quick roll between the sheets and a kiss goodbye.’

  The thought of a naked Cleo in bed with some faceless man was a black hole he always took pains to steer clear of. ‘I damn well hope so.’

  She nodded, aimed a thumb at her chest. ‘Good. Because this woman wants a man who’s not afraid to stick around for the family and commitment bit.’

  Two of the words he feared most. ‘I’m not big on family and commitment. I learned from the best.’

  Cleo snorted. ‘I was there too, remember, and I haven’t inherited your aversion. Don’t blame others for your inadequacies, or your fears.’ A disgruntled meow and the sound of claws sharpening on upholstery somewhere in the hall interrupted her. ‘I’d better let Con out. Like most males I know, he thinks the world revolves around him.’

  Jack waited till she left before easing off the bed. ‘Whoa.’ Dizziness surged through him and he sat down again, clamped his hands to the mattress and took slow deep breaths. A few minutes to get his bearings and he’d be right. Nothing some good Aussie tucker and a couple of painkillers wouldn’t cure. He was home, safe and almost sound.

  Home. The word slipped subtly into his mind before he realised. He’d taken great care not to use the term, because it invariably engulfed him in memories he’d wanted to forget. Now here he was. Swamped.

  Thank God for his camera. Freelancing the world had kept his focus off what he couldn’t have and directed it down more productive paths. Four years ago he’d traded glitz and glamour for war zones, lived for the present and refused to think beyond his current assignment. It was better than beating himself up over what he couldn’t change.